But in the End, It Doesn't Even Matter
by Lady Lylia
Summary: Before (what would have been) his fifth year at Hogwarts, Harry deals with depression + the Dursleys. Not for the faint of heart. Usual HP disclaimer. CHAPTER 15 IS UP!!! Read, and revel in the joy of me finally posting! lol, r/r
1. The Beginning of the End

Vernon Dursley took one booming step, then another. His sunburnt face was getting redder with every movement, every wild gesture of his pudgy hands. He loomed over the figure in front of him, a fifteen year old boy with black hair and glasses. The boy seemed shaken, and there was blood trickling down his cut lip. The man's mustache quivered with rage as he spoke, pure fury marring his already less than handsome face, "Get in your damn cupboard where you belong, you little runt! You and your no good family have run us into the dirt for long enough! I'd like to see you get out of here now! What good is your precious magic when you're not allowed to use it? You stupid git!" He punched the cowering teen in the face once, hard, knocking the thin, wasted youth into the wall in the back of the closet under the stairs. The cupboard door was slammed hard, a bar thrown across it to keep it shut.  
  
Slowly, shaking with pain, Harry Potter sat up. His head was spinning, one of his ribs was cracked. He had a bloody lip, a concussion, and what would probably be a black eye within minutes. A year ago, Harry had been able to take such a beating, but not now. He had been worked to the bone by the Dursleys, not given any food, hardly any water. Yet, strangely enough, Harry Potter did not care.  
  
His friends would not have recognized him anymore. His clothes were ten sizes too big and tattered to the point where they might have simply been rags. Had he not been wearing the clothes, every rib would have shown in disturbing detail. His black hair still refused to stay where it was put, making him look even more bedraggled then he was. There were large bags under his eyes, eyes that should have been a vibrant green but were rapidly losing their luster, nearly grey already. Already, a purplish black lump was rising, swelling Harry's left eye shut. His cheeks were hollow and sunken on a face devoid of any blood. Only his lips showed any color, an ashen shade standing out starkly against the welling blood from the cut on his bottom lip. His black hair, his unruly, untidy hair, was now as greasy and gnarled as Snape's. Indeed, he looked like a cross between Snape on a bad day and Sirius when Harry first met him.  
  
Harry did not care at all. He stared at the little chipped and cracked foggy mirror he had in his cupboard, which the Dursleys had moved him back into while he had been in Hogwarts. The blood was starting to dribble down his chin, but Harry felt no need to wipe it away. He could only see out of one eye, and it was filling with tears. He looked away from the mirror. He did not want to see what he had become.  
  
It didn't matter, though. He deserved it. Everyone hated him. The Dursleys wanted him dead, Snape probably fantasized about drinking his blood, Draco Malfoy would eagerly help Snape brew it, and Voldemort had made trying to kill Harry into a sport. He deserved that too. So many had died because of him. Cedric Diggory immediately came to mind, but he was only the most recent on the list. Before Cedric, there had been many others. Most important were Lily and James Potter. Both died trying to protect their son. But Harry didn't deserve their protection. His parents were dead, Cedric was dead, how many others were nearly killed because of him?  
  
Every one of his friends had been placed in mortal danger at least once because of him. How many times had Ron and Hermione suffered, all for befriending the infamous Harry Potter?  
  
The Dursleys new grandfather clock began to chime. It rang out once, twice, thrice, again and again. Finally, it sang out its twelfth note and lay silent again. He slowly sighed, a ragged sigh that betrayed the damage done to his ribcage. He breathed in deeply through his tears, and began to sing. "Happy birthday to me, Happy birthday to me, Happy birthday dear Harry, Happy birthday to me!" He almost began to laugh as he sang, it was so pathetic. He had received no owls, no muggle letters or packages, no present from the Dursleys. Not that another pair of Vernon's old socks would be that special, but at least it would be SOMETHING. Hedwig had been released by Harry, with a note asking the Weasleys to take care of her for the summer. Fortunately for them both, his beautiful snowy owl had not returned, so hopefully Ron was keeping Hedwig safe for him.  
  
Why hadn't any of his teachers taught him how to magic up food? Oh well, he didn't deserve food. He had hurt everyone around him. As long as there was a Voldemort in the world, everyone around Harry would get hurt. But if there WAS NO Harry, he mused to himself, Voldemort wouldn't hurt anyone Harry cared about. He could save them all, so easily. It was a good plan, Harry thought dully. He had hurt everyone enough. HE had hurt enough. It was time to end it, here and now.  
  
He slowly moved the floorboard, picked up his wand. He didn't deserve to live, he didn't deserve to make others suffer. He should have died. Not Cedric, not his parents, but he, Harry Potter, should have. He held the tip to his forehead, a grim smile on his face. Maybe he and Voldemort were not so different after all. They had the same wand, and the same spell was about to be cast out of Harry's that Voldemort himself had used so many times.  
  
"Avada Kedavra," he whispered, the last breath rattling in his frail and broken chest.  
  
All around the world, in the seediest taverns and darkest alleyways, people met in secret, their hesitant voices whispered, "To Harry Potter - the boy who died!" 


	2. Twin Storms Rage

Two storms raged. As much as the lightning and thunder petrified most, the storm within Sirius Black was clearly the more dangerous of the two. His black hair was wild again, he had stubble on his chin, his eyes flashed dangerously when he spoke nowadays, and with good reason. He had finally been acquitted, his name cleared, yet victory meant nothing. "NOTHING!" Sirius screamed into the empty air. The air was hollow, empty, drained of life, just like Harry's body. He threw a chair into the wall, bursting a nice hole in his bedroom wall. Outside, the thunder roared.  
  
He had been the first one to the Dursleys'. It had been he who had burst open the cupboard under the staircase, it had been he who bore the battered body out the front door, tears streaming down his face. He had failed in every way. He had failed James, he had failed Lily, he had failed Harry. There was nothing left, no one left. Of the old companions, no one remained. James and Lily were gone, their son newly dead as well. Remus was in hiding, his condition making association with the outside world more difficult with each passing month. Peter had betrayed them all and was now a servant of Voldemort. Arabella, his old flame, could no longer look him in the eye. So many more were dead, hiding, or had betrayed them long ago. Dead. No one was left. "NO ONE!" he screamed. The ornamental crockery on the shelves started to fly as lightning flashed, briefly and terribly illuminating the room.  
  
He had failed James and Lily, all those years ago. When James had trusted him more than life itself, trusted him with his very family, Sirius had suggested a decoy. It had been a clever plan when they talked that night, the last night he saw them alive. To use puny little Peter Pettigrew as the secret keeper, it was something Voldemort did not think they would be stupid enough to do. Sirius would be chased across the countryside, while the Potters were safe no matter what happened, because no one would suspect they had used Peter. Why hadn't he suspected Peter? He had overlooked him, like everyone did. He was the slow kid, the fat kid, the one that nobody paid any attention to, the one that everyone felt sorry for. Did Voldemort feel sorry for him now? As he contemplated darkly to himself, the wind whipped around, shaking his old house.  
  
Sirius had tried, for a year and a half, to put his life back together, all for Harry's sake. He was to take Harry very soon. By September, custody would have been transferred. But Harry couldn't make it. He hadn't held out. He wasn't strong enough. Why should he have been? He had been barely fifteen when he took his life. No one, especially at his age, should have been able to handle the strain they all somehow expected Harry to miraculously deal with.  
  
HE, Sirius Black, the wonderful godfather, had expected just as much of Harry, maybe more. How could he not? Every time he saw Harry, he saw James again. James at fifteen, Prongs, the leader of the Marauders, ready with another dungbomb. How could anyone NOT see James when they looked at Harry? The two were clearly father and son. And he had Lily's eyes, Lily's beautiful emerald eyes. Those eyes that made every guy weak at the knees, that made every girl look at her with daggers, Harry had had THOSE eyes. He got the best of both parents, but what good did it do him? No good, none at all now he was dead. Maggots, maggots, were feasting on that body that could have belonged to James, the eyes that looked like Lily's were flat and dull, like a corpse's. Because he was a corpse. A corpse. "A BLOODY STINKING CORPSE!" He began to jump up and down, punching and kicking everything, the bed, the floor, himself. Thunder rolled, lightning struck a tree outside, setting it aflame.  
  
So now what? The ministry had made him an Auror again, and Dumbledore wanted him to teach. Defense Against the Dark Arts. It had always been a cursed position. No one could last a year there anymore. But Snape wanted it. Snape. How he and James had hated Snape once, reviled him. James ... Harry ... dead. Everyone died eventually. But why do the good die young? Why, why, WHY??? This time, no words could form in Sirius's throat as he screamed his anguish. There was nothing left in the room to break. Nothing but himself, and he was determined not to go as Harry did. Not yet. Harry had left him a note, telling him not to. For Harry, he would live. "Oh, Harry," he whispered, his violent anger and remorse finally starting to fade. Sirius Black, the famed wizard once feared by every witch and wizard, curled up in a little ball and wept. Outside, the violent and terrible storm finally died, replaced by steady drizzle. 


	3. Dusty Glasses

Ron walked into the Gryffindor common room, his dead-seeming eyes searching for someone. Everyone stopped talking when he walked in. Ron was past caring. If they stopped talking, it was because they were talking about HIM and didn't want Ron to overhear. It never once occurred to the youngest Weasley son that they might have been worrying about him.  
  
They had reason to worry. Ron was thinner than he used to be. He never moved unless he had to anymore. He hardly spoke unless asked a question, and always answered as briefly as he could. His eyes had sparkled once, but now they were dull, weighed down by the bags under his eyes. No one saw him crying after the funeral, but no one saw him laughing either. Even Fred and George could not make him smile anymore, and that was a bad sign. Not that the twins were coping well themselves. There were noticeably less pranks these days.  
  
Ron sighed. She wasn't in the common room. But her friends were, he thought to himself. "Lavender, where's Hermione?" She and Parvati shared a room with her, so they should know. "She didn't come down for breakfast."  
  
"Did you try the library?" asked Parvati. Ron really isn't looking well, she thought.  
  
Ron nodded dully. "I tried there first."  
  
Lavender just looked at Ron, wondering to herself, not for the first time, what Harry's death had done to them all. "I think she is still in bed."  
  
"Can you get her for me?" Lavender started to shake her head. "Lavender, please. She needs to get out of bed." She was still shaking her head. "All right, if you won't try to get her up, can you take me in there?"  
  
Parvati was shocked. "Boys aren't allowed in the girls dormitory!"  
  
"I know that! But we all KNOW what they're trying to prevent, and 'Mione and I wouldn't do that."  
  
Lavender and Parvati just looked at each other for a moment, and then they looked at Ron. "Alright, we'll both take you." Lavender said with a sigh.  
  
The two girls quietly escorted Ron to the girls dormitory. "This is it," Parvati said quietly. "I'll wait out here with Ron, and Lavender, go make sure she's awake and dressed."  
  
Parvati stood nervously in the corridor with Ron while Lavender went into the bedroom the girls shared. Ron could here voices from the room, but he could not understand what they were saying.  
  
After a minute or two, Lavender poked her head out hesitantly. "Hermione doesn't want you to come in."  
  
Through the partially open door, Ron could see Hermione. She had her back to him, lying on the bed. He could see her shaking from the hallway. "That's nice," Ron said with a sigh. Then he stepped around Parvati, who was trying to stand between him and the door, and pushed the door the rest of the way open. Deftly dodging Lavender, he walked into the room softly.  
  
He sat on the bed beside Hermione's shaking form. Without a word, he put his hand on her shoulder. He nodded for Lavender and Parvati to leave, which they did with surprisingly little protest. He had no doubt that the two were both waiting at the door.  
  
In a whisper, he began to speak, trying to comfort his friend. "It's okay, 'Mione. Everything's going to be all right," he murmured again and again.  
  
"How could he, Ron? How could he? He LEFT us!" The hysterical voice that spoke sounded nothing like Hermione's. "He's gone. Gone!" With that, the shaking figure began to sob.  
  
Rob didn't try to reply, try to answer the same questions that had nagged at him since Harry's death, just pulled Hermione up to sitting from behind. He spun her around and pulled her into his arms. She fell, crying hysterically, into his arms, her head resting on Ron's shoulder as she sobbed.  
  
Ron just held Hermione close, kissing her hair and rubbing her back, trying to comfort his remaining best friend. As badly as Ron had been coping with everything, Hermione was visibly suffering more. Her hair had never been especially neat and straight, but now it looked like it had been run over by a train. Her intelligent brown eyes were red-rimmed and puffy from crying for days straight, and framed by bags almost as big as the ones under Ron's eyes. She did not even bother to put on her glasses, instead leaving them on her nightstand. Ron glanced over at her spectacles, and they were slightly dusty. She hadn't touched them in a few days, which meant she hadn't gotten out of bed for just as long.  
  
"Why, Ron? Why?" she sobbed softly, as her shaking slowly improved.  
  
He just shook his head and held her close. "I dunno, 'Mione. I dunno. It must have been the Dursleys. They were always rotten to him."  
  
"Why didn't we notice? Why didn't we see what was happening, try to help him?"  
  
Ron just shook his head again. He swallowed twice before he could speak, and his voice was hollow. "He gave me Hedwig early in the summer, told me to keep her until we met in September. I should have known then. I just thought the Dursleys had a problem with the owl. Then I wasn't surprised when I didn't get any letters from him, because he had no way to send them. I should have sent Hedwig back once a week, for him to keep talking with me. I should have DONE something."  
  
"Don't blame yourself, Ron," Hermione replied. "It's my fault too. If I had tried to do something, write him a muggle letter, even. I would have known then."  
  
"Why didn't we try to get him out the house earlier. I should have taken him for the whole year."  
  
Hermione just shook her head, looking up for the first time, her sobs even dying down. "Dumbledore told you not to. He was doing what was best."  
  
"And now Harry's dead!" Ron snarled, showing real emotion for the first time since the funeral. "That's who's fault it is. It's Dumbledore's!"  
  
Hermione just looked at him, dumbfounded, really seeing him for the first time since he had walked in. She dusted off her glasses on her shirt and put them on, studying her friend closely as she began to speak. "Ron," she whispered, touching her hand to his cheek, "don't place blame. Harry is dead. It does not matter how or why, because that won't bring him back. Please, Ron. Dumbledore was protecting Harry from You-Know-Who. How much more would it have hurt if HE had gotten to Harry, not the Dursleys? You saw Avada Kedavra last year, the spider just fell over, it wasn't in pain at all." She continued, gulping for air, for courage. "Harry isn't in pain anymore. He doesn't have to worry about the Dursleys, or You-Know-Who, or his parents. He's with his parents now, and Cedric."  
  
As she spoke, Ron's vision blurred. After a moment, it was he, not Hermione, who was shaking and crying. For the first time since the funeral, Ron let himself cry. With a soft moan of pain, of mourning, he and Hermione held each other close. "I miss him," he whispered.  
  
"So do I," murmured Hermione softly, holding Ron in her arms, comforting him like a little child. "So do I." 


	4. Bitter Memories and Black Tattoos

In a green leather wing backed chair, Severus sat, staring at the wall. His long hands gripped the arms tightly. He had tried reading, he had tried playing chess, he had tried sleeping. Nothing helped. Nothing could make the delusions go away. Faces loomed before him, desperately asking him to help them.  
  
Severus sank backwards into the chair, his melancholy face twisted in pain. "Leave me be, damn you!" he screamed, and then whispered, almost inaudibly, "How can I save you if I can't even save myself?"  
  
How much blood would they put on his hands before all this was through? Maniacally, he leapt from the chair. There was blood on his hands, he had to wash his hands. He ran, staggering, desperate steps, to the small bathroom in his quarters. He turned on the tap, ice water flowing over his hands.  
  
The water was cold, cold like his blood. Cold water would not make the blood go away. He turned of the cold water, turned on the hot. The water was steaming as it hit his hands. Severus closed his eyes, groaned in pain as the scalding liquid ran all over his hands. After nearly ten minutes under the water, he reached out and turned off the tap.  
  
Pulling gauze out from the bathroom closet, he bound his hands. Then, with a bitter moan, he sat on the side of the tub. Still, the images danced before him.  
  
His first year at Hogwarts. He was on the train, riding there. He was walking from car to car, looking for companionship. The first people he came upon were the ones he remembered. A girl and a boy. She was a pretty green-eyed redhead, Severus remembered. Even eleven year old boys, famous for the phobia of girls, thought so. The one she was sitting with apparently thought so too. He had sloppy black hair, probably never combed it before in his life, and glasses.  
  
In his fourth year. He hesitantly approached her. She was so beautiful, with auburn curls and emerald eyes. The Valentine's Day ball was only a week away. He was only a few feet away from her, he opened his mouth to call her name, and then he froze. That strutting idiot, James, the boy with the black hair, had walked up to her and took her hand. She smiled at him, kissed his cheek. No! Severus was left alone, standing in the hallway with his mouth agape.  
  
His sixth year. Sirius Black told Severus how to find out what was wrong with Remus Lupin. 'Just push the knob in the trunk!' He tried it, started traveling through the subterranean tunnel. Suddenly, there was James yet again, running after him. 'Don't go in there! He's dangerous, a werewolf!' he had said, out of breath, dragging him back. He was in on the prank; Severus could tell by the fear in his eyes. For days afterwards, he strutted about, proud to have 'saved' Severus's life.  
  
The worst scene of all of them would go here, but for some reason, it did not come. Not yet. It would come last in his cycle of visions, like it always did.  
  
The first day of school four years ago. A boy walked in. He had sloppy black hair and strutted as he walked in. He looked for all the world like the other boy, but his eyes were green, and there was a scar on his forehead.  
  
A day a few years later, midterm. The same boy, with the scar, tells him to shut up. Screams, really. 'My dad didn't strut, and neither do I!' he had shouted. Then, he found a spare bit of parchment in the boy's possession. They taunted him in writing. All four of them, including Prongs. Especially Prongs. The bastard!  
  
Nearly the present. Dumbledore comes in, into this room. 'Severus, something has happened.' He could tell that Dumbledore was worried. 'What, Albus?' The old man just shook his head, a lone tear sliding down his cheek. 'It's Harry Potter. He has just committed suicide.' Severus sank numbly into a chair. It couldn't be. 'Are you sure?' The old man nodded, patted him on the shoulder, and left, saying, 'I must inform the other teachers.' What would befall them now?  
  
Then, IT came. The horrible memory. It was clearer than the others, as though he was really there, Fourteen years ago. He was wearing a black robe, standing beside Voldemort. The robe of a Death Eater. "Another glorious victory about to occur, Snape."  
  
He tried to keep his voice in a monotone as he spoke, "Yes, Master. Who gave the Potters away?" He did not know, Dumbledore would want to hear it from his lips, would want him to save them if he could. But somehow, he knew he could not. They would die, all three of them. Part of him should have been glad, the part that had hated James since they were children. Yet, he did not. In the end, he would not be able to save them.  
  
"Oh, that is of no consequence. Just a long time helper of mine." Who was it? Probably Sirius Black. The foul, conniving bastard. He WOULD betray his best friend.  
  
"What do you want of me, Master?" Please, don't make me kill them. Not me.  
  
Voldemort laughed, a high-pitched, terrible laugh. "I just want you to wait outside while I do this. You are to stand guard, and listen to their glorious screams!"  
  
"Yes, Master," Snape whispered, his head bowed and filled with self loathing. His hand rested on the wand tucked in his belt. Stop him, his mind screamed. The killing curse, the crucio, anything, freeze him in place, DO SOMETHING! He could not and he knew it. There was a shield around him at all times, a reflector. Any negative spell cast on him would automatically rebound on the caster.  
  
That gave him an idea. He crept up to the window, raised his wand. He had to wait until Voldemort was distracted. There was a sudden flash of green light, and James fell. He was not glaring at Voldemort anymore, not telling Lily to run. He was looking out the window, staring at Severus. James hated him then, hated him with his last breath.  
  
Snape did not have time to shake his head, could not let James know it had not been his fault, not let him know he was trying to save them. He was too busy casting the spell. Then he had to pick a target. He had to choose between mother and child. He waited, tensely, for Voldemort to choose his target. He killed Lily. She died screaming in the green light, casting a minor spell to protect her child. It would not be enough and Severus knew it. He chose his target. Little Harry had now received a reflection spell. It would only last for about half an hour, but hopefully that would be enough.  
  
Voldemort pointed his wand at the baby, who was wailing incredibly loudly. A third flash of green light, and this time Voldemort fell. He never turned around, he never knew that Severus had been the one. At least, Severus hoped Voldemort did not know.  
  
The cycle of visions stopped then. They would repeat soon, from the beginning.  
  
Left with a few minutes of clarity before the delusions came again, Severus realized he was trembling and had broken into a cold sweat.  
  
No one, not even Dumbledore, knew Severus had been there that night. Everyone assumed that "The Mother's Blessing", as the protection spell Lily or James, presumably Lily, had cast, had been what had finished Voldemort off. No one knew that it was Severus who killed Voldemort.  
  
He was cursed. That would explain everything. He had killed Voldemort, to save Harry's life. But Voldemort was not really dead, and Snape knew it. He had tried to tell Dumbledore, but the old man had told him to just celebrate the victory over evil. He had tried to explain that Voldemort might have known that he had betrayed his Master, and Dumbledore tried to assure him otherwise.  
  
Now, he is still alive, teaching successfully at Hogwarts. Meanwhile, the evil being he brought down had been suffering for fourteen years might now know that Severus was responsible for that downfall. And now, just to rub salt in the wound, the child he had been trying to save in his efforts had run off and killed himself. It had all been in vain. The dark lord was not dead, the person Severus had been trying to save was, and Voldemort was calling him.  
  
Severus looked down at his forearm. There was a black tattoo there, the dark mark. The night he had killed Voldemort, Snape had tried to remove the bloody tattoo in every way he could think of. He had tried to cut it off, scratch it off, even burning had not worked. It had taken Madame Pomfrey several hours to fix all of the cuts and burns on his forearm, as well as a skin graft. Yet somehow, the dark mark was still there. It had become more and more visible over the past hour. Voldemort was requesting his presence.  
  
Shivering, Severus tapped his wand to the stone wall. "Communico!" The wall shimmered, and then looked like a mirror. "Dumbledore!" he barked, and the wizened old headmaster suddenly appeared before him.  
  
"Yes, Severus?" he asked kindly, noting in passing that his potions teacher was not looking well.  
  
"Headmaster, I must take a vacation. It's a family affair, my grandmother is not feeling well. I have no idea what condition she is in, and thus am not sure how long I will be gone."  
  
Dumbledore nodded. He understood; they had made a code several months ago. A trip to visit his sick grandmother (both of Snape's grandmothers had been dead for years) meant that Voldemort was calling him. "I understand. You may go. I myself will teach the class until you return."  
  
The wall slowly faded back to stone. He grabbed his broomstick then, which had been suited with an invisibility glamour, activated when he flew it. Donning his heavy cloak, Severus flew out into the night. 


	5. A New Teacher

The fifth year Gryffindors and Slytherins slowly filed out to the lawns. It was their first day at Care of Magical Creatures. They had all heard the rumors that Hagrid was gone, no longer teaching the class, or even being gamekeeper on the grounds. Though Malfoy kept parading about, saying that his old man had finally gotten him fired, Hermione and Ron knew better. They knew Hagrid and Madame Maxime, the witch who had come from Beauxbaton for the Triwizard Tournament last year, had left together doing top-secret work for Dumbledore. Hagrid had "accidentally" let it slip to Harry, Ron, and Hermione last year that they were going to make a diplomatic liason with the giants.  
  
Hermione found herself remembering last year as they trudged across the lawns. "Who do you think it'll be this year?"  
  
Hermione still wasn't quite herself, Ron thought quietly as he pondered how to answer her. Of course, neither was he. Mourning was supposed to be a slow process. That's what his mum had told him. Oh well, let it take its time. "I dunno, 'Mione," Ron finally replied. "Probably some old hag-!"  
  
No sooner had the words left his mouth than he was forced to eat them, for they had reached the pen where the Care of Magical Creatures lesson took place. Before them stood a beautiful witch. She was fairly young, at least for a Hogwarts teacher. She seemed about the age of Sirius Black or Remus Lupin.  
  
That, of course, was not what made her stand out. She was tall and thin, about five foot eight or five nine. Her skin was lily white, and her face was narrow and delicate, aristocratic looking. Her hair was straw blonde, almost alabaster, cascading down her back. She had pulled it back in a loose braid. Most stunning were her eyes. They seemed to shift colors in the light. At first they were a shocking mint green, only to fade to amber, then go straight to purple, and settle back on pale blue, all within the first five minutes. Ron found himself wondering if she was part veela.  
  
"Hello, everyone. I am Professor Figg."  
  
A few Slytherins dared to snicker, "Figg, haha, Figg", whispering the name amongst themselves.  
  
Professor Figg just shook her head. "Please, children. I have heard every joke imaginable about my name, and found none of them particularly amusing." One student was still sniggering. "And you are?"  
  
"Draco Malfoy," he said proudly, his head held high.  
  
Professor Figg just looked at him and laughed laughed, a loud and merry chuckle that took everyone aback. "Well that explains everything! I knew your father well, he started at Hogwarts the same year I did. So, when I was catching up with Dumbledore before the term started, I happened to ask how your parents were. He told me that they had you, and proceeded to relate to me an extremely interesting incident that happened last year. Unfortunately, however, Mr. Malfoy, we won't be covering ferrets, including the bouncing variety, until your seventh year, so an exhibition of your talents will have to wait."  
  
The entire class, both Slytherins and Gryffindors, started to laugh. Even Ron and Hermione, depressed as they were, smiled a little. Last year, their old Defense of the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Moody, had transfigured Draco into a ferret and starting bouncing him up and down in the hallways. Draco scowled in response, muttered something under his breath about speaking with his father. "Well, Mr. Malfoy, if you insist on continuing to speak out of turn, I will have to keep you here for the next class period. That's when I have my seventh years." Draco added something about a bat like her being unable to transform anything to save her life.  
  
"Mr. Malfoy, I must say you remind me stunningly of your father. And, to prevent further misconceptions about my abilities," she began, finishing the sentence by transforming into a pure white housecat. The entire class was extremely amused, though they had all seen similar magic before from Professor McGonagall. "I was the top in my class at transfiguration, missed being head girl by only about a point. There have been only ten animagi to my knowledge this century, Mr. Malfoy. I am one of them, two others are teaching at this school as we speak, and at least three of those remaining are dead."  
  
"Why would I want to turn into a cat?" he asked with a snobbish pride.  
  
"The animagus transformation is the pinnacle of transfiguration magic, requiring years of careful study. I am a licensed veterinarian for both muggles and the magic world, simply because I know so much about animal anatomy, which was a prerequisite for me becoming an animagus. I am not surprised that you lack the drive for it." Malfoy simply stared at her, mouth agape. A teacher had insulted the proud Draco Malfoy.  
  
"Now, I believe, if there are no further interruptions, we shall begin our lesson. This is a bit more complicated than anything you have handled before, so you must follow my instructions to the letter. Due to recent events, the headmaster wishes me to concentrate on teaching you about the so-called 'dark creatures'. I will not necessarily be teaching you how to care for these creatures; I plan on focusing on giving you all the knowledge I can, so that one day you can combat them if you need to. These 'dark creatures' include dementors, giants, one particularly nasty species of dragon, and a few magically-spawned beings, the "aberrations" which are occasionally mentioned but never fully explained in your textbooks.  
  
"We will begin with dementors. As you are all quite familiar with those, I feel no need to bring one out. YET." At her words, the entire class shivered. "However, does anyone know how to combat a dementor already?"  
  
Dully, almost like she was in a trance, Hermione raised her hand. "Yes, Ms. Granger?"  
  
"You conjure a Patronus to battle with the dementor." Her voice sounded hollow, even to herself, and she was staring at the ground when she spoke.  
  
"And how do you do that?"  
  
Hermione raised her hand again. "You think of a happy memory and say 'Expecto Patronum'." Still, Hermione's voice was dull. She had lost part of herself when Harry died; it was apparent to all.  
  
Professor Figg nodded, pleased as she raised her wand. "Yes, good, Ms. Granger. Expecto Patronum!" she cried, and out of the tip of her wand floated a beautiful silver mist in the shape of a great cat. It stood for a few minutes, looking around, then it spun gracefully and pounced headfirst back into her wand.  
  
"Everyone, please take out your wands and attempt to conjure a patronus. I do not expect any of you to get it on the first try, for it is a very difficult spell. In addition, a memory must be extremely happy to work as a life source for a patronus. Basically, do not be disappointed should you not achieve results this class period. Begin."  
  
Ron and Hermione sat together. They got very little results at all. Ron only got a puff of silvery smoke to exit the tip of his wand before it died, and Hermione could not make anything happen.  
  
Meanwhile, Draco was sitting between Crabbe and Goyle, and they all were laughing. Draco whispered loudly to them, "Remember how scared Potter used to be of dementors? He fainted every time one got near him! Just that one time, when- AGHH!"  
  
For some reason, Draco found it extremely difficult to talk just then, as he was rapidly developing a black eye. He was lying on his back on the ground, and Hermione was on her knees, looming over him. There were tears streaming down her face. Ron gently pulled Hermione off him. Professor Figg, who had been on the other end of the little field, made it over and grabbed Hermione's shoulders. As she was pulling her away, Ron met Malfoy's gaze and said coldly, "If. You. EVER. Talk. About. Harry. Like. That. Again, I will rip your guts out with my bare hands." He saw Ms. Figg looking at him sternly, and he whispered, "And by the end, you'll be in so much pain that you'll wish that I had cast the crucio on you instead!"  
  
Figg sighed. Perhaps this year would not be as easy as she had hoped. "Mr. Malfoy, detention."  
  
"But Professor, I-," Draco started to say.  
  
"You insulted a dead student, one who happens to have had many friends. The next time you voice your opinions about Harry Potter, I suggest you do it where no one can hear you."  
  
"Speaking isn't a crime," he replied coolly.  
  
Professor Figg smiled cruelly. "But talking back to a teacher is, and you have done plenty of that already today. Two detentions, Mr. Malfoy. Please keep talking. I plan on asking Mr. Filch to preside over your detentions, because I have a great deal of work to do tonight. In addition, I know what a great personal relationship Mr. Filch has with his students, and I am sure that you will both enjoy your sentence. In the mean time, I believe you should report to Madame Pomfrey. Your eye is swelling rather badly."  
  
Draco just stammered, "Wha-what about HER?"  
  
"I am about to see to her punishment. You are dismissed, Mr. Malfoy. Ms. Granger, please follow me." Professor Figg led Hermione to the other side of the empty pen where they could speak in private.  
  
"Professor, I'm sorry, I just-," Hermione began.  
  
Figg just shook her head, a grim look on her face. "I have several things to say. The first is that kind of behavior is inexcusable. Violence does not solve anything, Ms. Granger."  
  
"Yes, Professor," Hermione replied meekly, staring at the grass beneath her feet.  
  
"The second is that you have a nice right hook," Professor Figg added with utter seriousness, maintaining the expression for about a minute before she started to smile. In disbelief, Hermione just gaped at her. "I did that to his father a few times. I doubt Mr. Malfoy remembers it though, I hit him hard enough to knock the memory out of him on both occasions." Figg winked at her student.  
  
"Now, for the punishment part. No, Hermione, I can't let you off the hook completely, much as I would like to. However, I think I know a slightly more preferable way to deal with this. You were very close with Harry, weren't you?" Hermione's little smile died, and she just gulped, unable to do more than nod once. "Was Mr. Weasley close with him as well?" Again, Hermione nodded. "I noticed that both of you are having especially an especially hard time coping with grief right now. I think you two need some form of counseling. I believe that we have someone at Hogwarts who would be capable of helping you deal with your emotions in a slightly less, shall we say, destructive manner."  
  
Hermione flushed a little, though not as deeply as she normally would have. "Who would this person be?"  
  
"Oh, it's best not to discuss that now. We will go back to class now, and I will inform you when this meeting has been set up. I saw you having trouble conjuring a patronus a few minutes ago," she finished, changing the topic.  
  
"Yes, Professor. All my happy memories involve HIM, and well…" Hermione's voice just dropped off.  
  
Professor Figg just smiled. "I believe I have found a suitably enjoyable memory for you and Mr. Weasley, however. Were either of you present during Mr. Malfoy's bouncing ferret incident?"  
  
"Yes, Ma'am!" Hermione seemed fairly cheerful, at least as cheerful as she had been for the past month. Though that basically translated to her not about to burst into tears, Ron was still grateful to see her in an undepressed mood as she walked back to him.  
  
As Hermione was about to turn back to conjuring her patronus, she noted a lone figure standing off to the sides of the 'classroom'. "Hello, Siri-Professor Black," she called tentatively. Sirius Black just nodded to her, flicking his hand in what might have been a wave. He seemed content to watch the class work.  
  
After a moment, Professor Figg noticed him standing there and walked up to him.  
  
"Wonder what THAT's about," Ron whispered to Hermione.  
  
The two teachers immediately began to engage in a fairly animated conversation. "Well, they are teaching similar topics. Dark creatures and dark magic go together in a way."  
  
"I don't think so, 'Mione," Ron replied. "Look at them! That's how close friends talk with each other."  
  
Just then, Sirius said something. It was only a whisper, but the tone was clearly angry. He stormed off then, leaving Professor Figg to stare at the ground for several minutes before returning to the class. "Close friends?" Hermione asked with a strange look on her face. "I think they used to be a bit closer than that."  
  
Ron just looked at her, dumbfounded. "How do you know?"  
  
"A woman's intuition, Ron," she replied, still the barest glimmer of a smile there. She refused to say any more about it the rest of the class, trying unsuccessfully to conjure a patronus. 


	6. Candelight and Wine...And Broken Glass

Professor Figg purposefully walked to HIS chambers. She was trying zealously not to reveal just how nervous she was. She couldn't believe she was doing this. She had not been alone with Sirius since...  
  
***  
  
Arabella was slowly being shaken awake. The touch was gentle, but her conscious mind knew it was important. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.  
  
Sirius was lying beside her under the covers, propped up on his elbows. He was smiling at her, but she recognized his concern. He had been with Lily and James and their son Harry only a few hours before, when Sirius had been made their secret-keeper. He had been stressed and tired, so he had gone to Arabella. "Can't a girl get any sleep around here?" she whispered with a teasing smile.  
  
He stroked her cheek fondly. "I wish I didn't have to wake you. I need to check on James and Lily again. I told them I would take care of things."  
  
Sirius looked very tense. Arabella smiled at him sweetly, pulled him back down. He used her chest as a pillow for a few minutes. She wrapped her arms around his neck and snuggled him close. "I love you," she whispered.  
  
"I love you too," he replied softly, one hand reaching up to caress her face. Then, he slowly rose. "I'll be back in a few hours, if nothing goes wro-," He stopped himself with a shudder, adding, "I'll be back soon." And he put on his clothes and walked out the door.  
  
***  
  
How did I let myself get talked into this, Arabella wondered to herself as she walked soundlessly down the corridor. Of course, she knew plainly well how she had let it happen. Sirius Black had always had his charms, though it was a wonder that they could still shine through after all that had befallen him. He was still mourning Harry, of course. That was perfectly understandable. Even if his dark eyes were not laughing the way she remembered, they had still called out to her.  
  
She finally reached the door. It was solid oak, reinforced with iron in the Medieval style that suited Hogwarts so well. Her delicate, pale fist reached out. She knocked once, twice, and then she waited.  
  
After a moment, the door silently glided open. "Welcome, Professor Figg, to my humble abode," Sirius said gallantly, bowing as he let her in. A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips.  
  
"Thank you for inviting me, Professor Black," she replied politely as she stepped through the doorway. He took her hooded velvet cape, long and midnight blue. At that moment, it matched her eyes, but they both knew her eyes were like kaleidoscopes, shifting color constantly.  
  
What Sirius saw under that cloak took his breath away. She was so tall and thin that she seemed dainty and fragile, but he knew from long ago that she was all wiry muscle. Her beautiful, gently curved body was covered with an elegant white robe, cut to fit her perfectly. Her long hair, so blonde it was almost white, was pulled back from her face into a loose braid that went all the way down her back.  
  
Arabella noticed his gaze and immediately began looking around the room. It was very similiar to her quarters in most ways, with stone walls, hard wood floors and ceilings. Yet the entire feel was different. In her rooms, the entire place felt dreamy, surreal. It was almost a fairy-tale princess's chambers. In the quarters of Sirius Black, the entire feel was dark, Gothic. The color scheme was black and blood red, with ebony furniture. She almost felt as though she would be swallowed whole if she took another step into the room.  
  
"Come, Arabella, sit with me," he said softly, gesturing towards his living room.  
  
She followed him and sat down beside him on a worn red leather couch. He was wearing all black, as he always had, but there was something about the way it hung on his muscular body that entranced her. She realized she was staring and looked away.  
  
"I haven't seen you in a long time, Arabella," he said softly. He was just gazing at her as he spoke.  
  
She just met his gaze firmly, with her amber eyes. "No, we haven't kept in touch, have we?"  
  
He opened his mouth, then closed it again before speaking. "Why didn't you try to contact me?" There was something in his gaze, flashing briefly across his face. She thought she recognized it; it was pain.  
  
"There was no need for us to speak. What could I have said to you?"  
  
He just looked at her, his eyes filled with shock and anger. The passion he used to have, the passion she had not seen since before James and Lily died, was back. Somehow, it did not add to his charm anymore. When he spoke emotionally now, it was with rage or depression, not with love. He fumed, "What about, 'I'm sorry about Harry', or, 'I know now that you did not kill James and Lily, please forgive me', or even just, 'Hey, remember me?' or 'Do you mind if I teach at Hogwarts?' What about all of that, Ara?"  
  
He called her Ara! They all used to call her that, once. Lily had been the first one to say it, when they were eleven. Oh God, don't think about Lily. Not now. "And I don't suppose you tried to contact me, Sirius?"  
  
There was a silence for a moment, before he spoke. "Oh, no. I tried to get a message to you, Arabella. Strangely, no one seemed to know where you were. Imagine my surprise when I found you, after looking for a year and a half, sitting at the staff table at the Sorting Ceremony!" At least he was as sarcastic as she remembered.  
  
"I have been working for Dumbledore for several years now, a little project of his. He no longer needed me to continue that work after this summer, so he offered me a teaching position."  
  
He just looked at her for a moment. "What were you doing for Dumbledore?"  
  
Arabella just stared back at him with her grey eyes, trying to keep her face blank. "I'm not permitted to speak about it." She took a deep breath. "Don't try and force it out of me."  
  
After a moment, he just nodded. He seemed very old and tired all of a sudden. "Why don't we eat? I've made dinner." As they rose and walked to his small kitchen, he added, "I doubt that it's as good as the regular fare, but I hope it's enough."  
  
She smiled reassuringly at him. "If I remember correctly, Sirius, you are a very good cook. I doubt the house elves could do better." He blushed slightly at her praise. Arabella sat down and Sirius went over to the magical stove.  
  
That gave her the most wonderful opportunity to stare at his back. Even when they were students, he had had the build of a football player, and though many years had gone by he was still tall and broad shouldered. Memories began to drift back to her. Some were sweet, some haunting. A few were terrible. One memory in particular...  
  
***  
  
Arabella walked into the courtroom, sat down near the back. It was cold, much too cold. But so was she. She had become just like the room over the past few weeks, cold and hard. What else could she do? She had lost everything. Her friends, her lover, everything had disapparated in one night.  
  
HE was sitting, shackled and under the imperius. He did not turn around from the defendant's booth, did not try to look her in the eye. Maybe he did not even know she was there.  
  
She was wearing a black robe, had pulled her hair up into a neat bun and wore a veil across her face. She had the right to wear black. Lily had been her best friend, her confidante. She was very good friends with James as well. She had been Harry's godmother, for god sakes! Not that it mattered; Dumbledore insisted that the boy be placed with his muggle relatives.  
  
As if she had not suffered enough already, now she was losing the last important person, and it would be by her own hand that he was banished.  
  
After a long time, several hours of arguments and witnesses, Arabella was called to testify. The prosecution was saving her testimony for last, as it was the best and most convincing argument, not that he wouldn't be put in Azkaban regardless. No matter what happened in court, he would pay for what he did.  
  
The prosecutor stood before her. He was a tall wizard, with steel grey hair and cool eyes. "Ms. Figg, where were you on the night that James and Lily Potter died?"  
  
She tried to speak, had to clear her throat several times, "I was ... with Sirius Black, in my apartment." The crowd murmured all at once. The judge banged his enchanted gavel, and they fell silent.  
  
"Why was he in your apartment?"  
  
"We were, romantically attached," Arabella replied with a painful swallow.  
  
The prosecutor looked at her closely for a moment. "For how long was he with you on that evening?"  
  
"From about five that afternoon to ten at night."  
  
The lawyer turned and addressed the room. "According to the medical analysis, the Potters died at approximately ten thirty that evening." He turned back to Arabella. "Ms. Figg, please continue."  
  
"I fell asleep at some point during the evening, and he woke me up a few minutes before he left."  
  
"Did he say anything to you?"  
  
Arabella closed her eyes. This could not be happening. How could it have happened? Why hadn't she known? "He told me he had to go check on Lily and James," she whispered, almost inaudibly, a lone tear trickling down her face.  
  
"Please repeat yourself," the lawyer replied gently.  
  
"He said he had to go check on Lily and James," she said far too loudly, her voice cracking. Her words were laced with pain, and she struggled to keep her tears in check. "He said he would be back soon, started to add 'if nothing went wrong' and stopped himself."  
  
"Is that all?"  
  
Tell them how worried he was about them, tell him that he loved James like a brother, tell them something! This couldn't be happening! "Yes, that's all."  
  
"You may be seated."  
  
As Arabella walked down from the witness stand, she saw HIS tortured eyes. He was staring at her, tears falling slowly. Even under the imperius, he was somehow able to weep.  
  
***  
  
After a long moment, Sirius turned back around. He had two glasses in one hand, a bottle of red wine in the other. Floating in front of him was a large bowl of pasta. The pasta set down gently on the table, between their plates, and he poured them each a glass of wine.  
  
Arabella sipped the wine, remarking, "I love Italian! I can't believe you remembered so much about me, Sirius."  
  
"You were the love of my life from when we were both fourteen, Ara. How could I forget?" He was staring at her with an intensity she remembered all too well.  
  
She broke his gaze, began to eat. She reminded Sirius of a bird when she ate. He still loved to watch her, even after all that had happened between them.  
  
The two ate in near silence. They both attempted to make small talk, neither with any success. Eventually, they finished their meal. Taking the bottle of wine and his glass, he led Arabella back to the couch.  
  
After a brief and awkward silence, they began to converse, hesitantly at first. There was much gossip about the people they had known as students that only one person knew of the pair. After a long while, the bottle was empty.  
  
Finally, what Arabella had been wanting to say to her ex-lover for several monthes spilled from her lips. "Sirius, I have to apologize, for...," she began, her voice trailing off. "I didn't know about Peter, and I thought..." She did not continue. They both knew what she had assumed.  
  
He just nodded, a faint smile on his lips. He accepted Arabella's apology gracefully, with a hint of his old charm. "We had no idea who was passing information. James didn't want to suspect anyone in our circle, but it had to be one of us. We never suspected Peter. We should have, I still don't know how I could have missed it."  
  
She scooted closer to Sirius, put her glass down on the coffee table and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You can't blame yourself. They're dead, Sirius. They've been dead for a long time, and no amount of pain on your part is going to bring them back."  
  
He did not meet her brown-eyed gaze, simply looked at the floor as he spoke. "All the Potters are dead now. I could have saved all three, and I didn't."  
  
"There was nothing you could do, Sirius! You couldn't save James or Lily or Harry, and there is only one person to blame. The Dark Lord is responsible for this, not you. Just keep fighting, and maybe we can make their deaths count for something."  
  
He looked up then, meeting her gaze with a question burning in his eyes. "Why didn't you adopt Harry, Ara? We were both his godparents, you could have taken him."  
  
"Dumbledore wouldn't let me, said it was best for his aunt and uncle to take him."  
  
He started laughing then. His laughter was cold and booming and harsh, taking her by surprise. "It was best?! Ara, I was the one who carried his body out of that hellhole. He weighed about seventy-five pounds in the end, bruised and cut everywhere. I have never seen a worse black eye in my life than the one he bore! There were still tears on his face when I found Harry's body. What would have been best would be to have given him to you, or even have Dumbledore adopt the boy. Something!" He was raging inside, shaking as he spoke.  
  
He still blames himself, Arabella realized suddenly. It had been over two monthes since Harry's death, and still he placed himself at fault.  
  
Arabella hardly realized she was giving Sirius a hug until his head was resting on her shoulder. Just like she had that last night they had been alone together, it began with a hug. She had to fight back a shudder as she remembered how that night had progressed. "It'll be all right, Siry, I promise." That had been her old nickname for him, years ago. "I know it hurts, shh. I know."  
  
He had not been in a woman's arms, had not been in HER arms, for far too long. He had missed her so much. In Azkaban, everything that was good in his memories was sucked out of him. That included his happiness with Arabella. It felt so good to be held by her again, and he leaned against her strong, lithe body. She still had those muscles from quidditch years ago. They had all played on Gryffindor house quidditch, Sirius and Ara and James. James...  
  
He whispered brokenly, "I just miss them all, so much. Every time I saw Harry, it was James again. Did you ever meet him?"  
  
Arabella shifted her weight under him as she spoke. "Oh, well, once or twice. They did look a lot alike... I miss them too, Sirius."  
  
She found herself rubbing his back as she held him. Slowly, as though he was afraid to move, Sirius sat up. He had put his arms around Arabella as she was hugging him, and he did not move his limbs as he rose. Her arms stayed in place as well.  
  
Her eyes are beautiful right now, he mused to himself. Just then, they were the color that Lily's eyes used to be, and Harry's eyes too. He missed them all so much, it was like an ache inside. His eyes started welling up, and he was distraught to find that he could not prevent the onslaught of tears.  
  
Even as a child, Sirius had been the strong one, the tough one, the bad boy. He never showed anything but bravery and strength and attitude. Why would he do otherwise? He was the only one of the Marauders who enjoyed wearing the black robes that were class attire at Hogwarts, and the only one who continued to wear similar garb after graduation. Never did he let himself hurt in public, or in front of HER. He was supposed to be strong for Ara, he had known that all along. All of that made his tears harder to bear.  
  
She reached up with one hand, brushed his cheek, wiping away the tears. They looked at each other, almost like they were seeing each other for the first time. It was second nature for them to lean closer, to move their mouths toward each other, to...  
  
"No!" Arabella said, too loudly, jerking back harshly, then added in a calmer tone of voice, "No." She sighed. "Sirius, I can't do this. Not now."  
  
Sirius just looked at her, his face rapidly decaying into bitter fear. His best friend was dead, his best friend's wife was dead, their son was dead, the only person left was Ara. He missed her companionship so much...  
  
He stared at her, whispered mournfully, "Please, Ara, I have missed you so much, I-!"  
  
I can't believe it, Arabella thought as she started swaying a little in her seat. I'm drunk. "No, Sirius. Don't. I couldn't; too many old memories. Every time I see your face, I can't help but think of Lily and James. It's too much."  
  
"Fine." He nodded swiftly, with a false politeness, rising to his feet. He seemed rather drunk just then, for he did not rise as smoothly as he should have. He picked up his empty wine glass in one hand, the matching bottle in the other, gestured wildly at the door. Wordlessly, Arabella began to leave. She knew Sirius in THAT mood all too well.  
  
She was stepping through the doorway when she heard him say, "And Ara? What do you think I see every time I look at YOUR face?" he whispered, his voice full of venom, and Arabella slowly, quietly shut the door behind her. There were tears in her eyes as she heard the sound of glass shattering against the door, and then a horrible silence. 


	7. The Order of the Phoenix

Dumbledore sat at his desk. The old wizard looked tired and worn, but then, they all did. In chairs positioned in a circle sat several professors. McGonagall, Snape, Black, and Figg, as well as Madame Pomfrey, all sat together there. There were a few others, not on the teaching staff. Mundungus Fletcher, a former Hogwarts student and a Gryffindor, Arthur, Bill, and Charlie Weasley, Alastor Moody, and Remus Lupin, the former professor.  
  
There were three seats left empty as well. Two were for Hagrid and Madame Maxime, for when they returned from their diplomatic missions. The third seat, draped in black, was always empty. It was a reminder of everyone who had fallen in their struggle against Him.  
  
Dumbledore banged his gavel quietly. There was really no reason for him to do it at all, for no one was talking, but they needed it. At least that was how Dumbledore rationalized it to himself. They needed something to rally behind, for it seemed to be a losing battle they were fighting. "I call this meeting of the Order of the Phoenix to order!"  
  
Everyone sat at attention in their seats. On Dumbledore's right was Professor McGonagall, to his left was Snape. Snape sat next to the two empty seats reserved for the half-giants, so he was basically alone beside the headmaster. To McGonagall's right were all three Weasleys. Next to Bill Weasley was Professor Figg, and she was seated beside the Chair of the Fallen. On the other side of that chair was Professor Black, then Remus Lupin and Mundungus Fletcher. Next to Fletcher was Madame Pomfrey, sitting on the other side of the two empty chairs for Hagrid and Madame Maxime.  
  
Dumbledore looked at them all gravely. "I believe the first order of business is Snape's update in his undercover work. Professor?"  
  
Snape seemed extremely agitated, tired, and bitter as he delivered his report. The keen observer would have noticed that he winced when he breathed deeply and his slight favoring of his right side. "Voldemort is proceeding cautiously, but he does not appear especially worried. I wonder if he suspects that we have Harry hiding somewhere!" he added with a harsh laugh, a brief and angry bark that did not sustain in the still air. He tensely cleared his throat and added, "He does not tell me his plans. I am not yet within his most trusted circle, and I fear I will nothing but a pawn of his for some time to come. My usefulness is limited."  
  
"Did anything occur of note during your meeting?" asked McGonagall sharply.  
  
Snape shook his head, wincing a bit more noticably. "Not unless you count what Madame Pomfrey has been kind enough to patch up already. I fear he is toying with me, using me to suit his foul amusement. It seems that the Cruciatus has become his favorite plaything."  
  
There was bitterness in Snape's voice, Arabella thought. Not that he had no right to be that way. He had been playing secret agent since he was in his twenties, and that was a long time ago. He was not young anymore, none of them were. Still, Snape distantly reminded her of who he used to be, the little brainy brat they had hated at Hogwarts. Yet, he had changed somehow. Or maybe I've changed, she amended silently.  
  
Dumbledore brought Arabella's thoughts back into focus as he spoke. "Who do we have on our sides?"  
  
"The Aurors are united behind you, as always," Moody said without hesitation, and Black nodded immediately. Arabella noticed that Sirius's gaze kept straying to her, and to the empty chair between them. They both knew who THAT chair represented. Yet, they did not speak. After the events last night, (had it only been last night) they were both reluctant to communicate at all.  
  
Arthur Weasley were discussing the Ministry's reaction to recent events. "It's still as if the Ministry does not notice any of the goings- on. The upper eschellons refuse to acknowledge a thing, though they've finally been persuaded to take away the dementors' control of Azkaban, instead simply putting a dementor in every cell. It actually tightens security and the foul things haven't seemed to mind much. We do have support in most quarters, especially among my department, and the charming branch. Some of the clean-up crews who'd seen what You-Know-Who did firsthand are our strongest supporters."  
  
"Fudge is still in denial, though," Bill Weasley added with a sigh. "He has been making more trips to Gringotts than he did before the Triwizard Tournament. I think he suspects me of doing more for The Order than I am. What exactly he suspects me of, I'm not sure." He acknowledged the silent questioning look from Lupin. "I've been doing exactly as Dumbledore suggested: scouting for information, looking for human support and any reactions among the goblins. Far as I can tell, they stay where we have put them as long as the pay is good. So unless You-Know-Who decides to rob from us, we should be safe."  
  
Scattered, weak laughter accompanied the long-haired man's statement. It was not an especially humorous remark, but good jokes were running low, and morale with it.  
  
McGonagall asked, rather hesitantly, "How goes our diplomatic mission to the giants?" The reason for her hesitation was apparent. Though most everyone liked Hagrid, the groundskeeper was not necessarily the best person for delicate diplomacy.  
  
"Though I feared it would have been much worse, we are not getting the results we desired," Dumbledore said with a sigh. "They do not trust us. Wizards have backstabbed them before, and they suspect we will again."  
  
"I suspected as much," Mundungus Fletcher replied. A few years older than Arabella, Fletcher was known as much for his stinginess and pessimism as for his sarcastic, macabre humor. "They have no reason to do anything but get us back for all the years that we have mistreated them. Even someone with peabrains like those could figure out that we cannot offer what the Dark Lord can."  
  
There was distraught, relenting nodding from the room. As much as they hated to admit it, no one truly expected the giants to come to their aid.  
  
Everyone slowly began to engage in their own side conversations as the meeting gradually disintigrated. Arabella caught Remus gazing sadly at The Chair, and she found herself wondering who he was remembering. Lily, James, Harry, any number of them could have been the one that Remus could see. Then, with a shivering sigh, she saw the look on her friend's face. He was remembering Hazel, he had to be. Arabella still missed her too, they all did. Not that many were left to mourn for the fallen. Who would mourn for her when she was gone...  
  
Arabella was jolted out of her reverie by a tap on the shoulder. "Professor Figg?" Charlie Weasley asked. "I need to speak with you about something."  
  
Charlie led Arabella out of the meeting room, took two lefts and a right, and then entered the door. Arabella followed. "Charlie, what's going on?"  
  
Charlie Weasley was excited, grinning wickedly and bearing a striking resemblance to some of his more mischevious siblings. "My coworkers and I thought up a rather odd idea for combating You-Know-Who, something that has never been tried before. If it's going to work, we need more manpower, and people with your experience. I have Dumbledore's approval, and he agreed that I should approach you about this..."  
  
After a moment's silence, Arabella was extremely curious. "Well?"  
  
TO BE CONTINUED }:) 


	8. A Detention Served

Draco Malfoy snarled irritably at anyone who came too close as he stormed through the hallways, his glacier-blue eyes gleaming. Just when Potty-Boy had managed to get himself killed, the mere memory of the prat managed to get him detention!  
  
He had finally reached Filch's office, by then completely and totally fuming. The door creaked open when he knocked. Filch nodded impatiently at him, his wild eyes and stringy hair making him look much worse than he was. "I don't have time to deal with you properly tonight, Malfoy," the old caretaker muttered quietly. "Instead, Mrs. Norris will lead you to the length of corridor you will be scrubbing this evening. Here's your scrubbing brush, and NO MAGIC! Mrs. Norris'll be keeping an eye on you." With that, the old man handed Malfoy a muggle toothbrush, obviously already well used, and went back to his paperwork. Mrs. Norris walked out of the office, with Malfoy tagging along behind.  
  
Mrs. Norris was perhaps the most exotic member of the Hogwarts administration. Though she looked like an ordinary, albeit ancient, housecat, she was something more. What exactly that 'something' was was beyond any student, including Malfoy. The cat was able to communicate with Filch somehow, a property that, combined with the stealthiness only cats possess, made every student want to kick her at least once during their Hogwarts education.  
  
Mrs. Norris was nearly skeletal thin, with pale, sickly yellow fur and pale eyes that were extremely disturbing. Malfoy found himself reminded of Mad-Eye Moody's magical eye; it had been pale blue, the color of a rheumy eye, the same color of Mrs. Norris's. A student making mischief was always paranoid about sighting those pale blue eyes.  
  
Mrs. Norris silently led Malfoy down several hallways. She led him through so many lefts and rights that he was beginning to curse the strange cat under his breath with every step. How could that bloody cat move so fast? Draco had to practically jog to keep up with her.  
  
Mrs. Norris finally stopped, so fluidly and suddenly that Malfoy nearly tripped over her. The corridor before them, one Malfoy had not seen before, was long and dusty. The faintest hint of boot prints caressed the ground-in brown film that seemed to permeate every surface of the corridor. The strange old cat nodded in Malfoy's direction once, then trotted a few meters away. He was sure that Mrs. Norris was watching him, waiting for him to pull his wand out of his boot.  
  
Draco gazed in disgust at the filthy hallway. With no other course of action before him, Malfoy fell to his knees and began to scrub furiously, muttering all the while about what would happen when his father found out about his detention.  
  
It took nearly three hours to remove a sufficient amount of dust from the strange hallway. As he stood, Mrs. Norris nodded to him again, then at the toothbrush. Malfoy held it out to her, and the cat took the handle in her mouth and ran off, not bothering to try and lead her charge back to the regular parts of Hogwarts.  
  
"Well, bloody hell!" Draco whispered in a sarcastic wonder. "Now what?" With no course of action available, Malfoy began to meander down the corridor, back the way he came.  
  
It only took ten minutes' wanderings for Draco to convince himself he was lost. "How the hell do you get lost in a school, the school you've been in since you were eleven?" he wondered absentmindedly, his voice full of venom. What was he going to do?  
  
After half an hour, Malfoy was so lost that he was about to give up hope. Each corridor looked just like the last, and each turned and branched off like crazy. He found himself musing about growing old wandering aimlessly through some uncharted section of Hogwarts.  
  
Just when he was about to give up and lie down to sleep right where he was, he heard something. What was it? It was a familiar sound, but Draco could not place it for the life of him. He started hesitantly towards it, wondering all the while what it could be. As he grew closer, it became more and more apparent. Someone was shouting, screaming. Malfoy had seen his father do the Cruciatus on the family dog once, and the sounds seemed similar, though what was crying out was still unknown to him. Just about anything could shriek like that if in enough pain.  
  
Finally, he was there, wherever 'there' was. There was a door, with a small window in it. Draco could see another corridor through that window, and then a tightly sealed door. The screaming was coming from there. It was terrible, like someone having their organs removed, someone watching a loved one die. Occasionally, a word or two could be made out from the shouting, usually not words used in polite company.  
  
For the first time, it occured to Malfoy that perhaps he was not supposed to be down here. He spun, ready to run off. As he was turning, suddenly he was not alone. "Mister Malfoy," Professor McGonagall said, clearly furious. "What exactly are you doing here at this time of night?"  
  
"Professor, I was just serving my detention with Mr. Filch, and I got lost, and then I heard this sound, and...," Draco found his voice trailing off, in proportions with the raising of McGonagall's eyebrows and the lowering of the corners of her mouth.  
  
"I believe that deducting twenty points from Slytherin is perfectly reasonable in this instance, Mr. Malfoy. I will escort you now to your house quarters, and I expect you to remain there until breakfast time."  
  
"Yes, Ma'am," Draco replied softly, his head hung. He knew when to say he'd been beat. He had enough friends in his house that the points wouldn't matter, and Snape would take more points than that from Gryffindor tomorrow, so he was not overly concerned.  
  
"This way, Mr. Malfoy," McGongall said curtly, whirling and causing her robes to billow behind her.  
  
Draco could not figure out how the old bat moved so fast. She had to be in her sixties, or older, but Draco had to hurry to keep up. He was so out of breath from the exertion that he could not even keep track of all the lefts and rights and which corridor to take. McGonagall unerringly led him out of the strange hallways, and within ten minutes Malfoy was back at the portrait hole to the Slytherin dungeon.  
  
Before Draco fell asleep that night, he dully wondered to himself exactly what he had stumbled upon. Whatever it was, he was not supposed to be there... 


	9. Your Specialty and Mine

Several hours later, Charlie and Arabella were still sitting in the small room, a merry fire and cozy armchairs in attendence. The comforts of the place did not detract from their purpose, or their enthusiasm.  
  
"Charlie, I think it might actually work!" Arabella exclaimed with a laugh. She was still getting over the shock of the idea. "This is so crazy, there's no way the Dark Lord would ever suspect it!"  
  
"I know it will! It has to!" Charlie Weasley said cheerfully. "Especially with Harry gone," he said, with a quiet sigh. His head hung slightly. "We're going to need all the help we can get."  
  
Just then, Arabella noticed how young he was. She was older by fifteen years, at least, than the second eldest son of the Weasleys. His bristly red hair and short, stocky build made him seem even younger.  
  
Arabella just reached out a hand and patted his shoulder. "I know it's hard. You knew Harry, didn't you?"  
  
He nodded. "He stayed at the Burrow last summer, went to the Quidditch World Cup with us. He was a great kid, would have been a great kid without being famous. You could tell he couldn't stand the whole thing, how much we praised him. You could tell he thought he was just an ordinary kid. I miss him."  
  
Arabella felt helpless. This was too much. Everyone missed her godson so terribly, it was unbearable. She wished she had known him better. Hesitantly, she patted Charlie's shoulder. "It's all right. I know how you feel." She had to change the subject, this was much too much. "Who else is working with us on this?"  
  
"I suspect Hagrid will be involved as soon as he returns," Charlie replied, a ghost of his smile returning. "And I doubt that Professor Black, Remus Lupin, or Mundungus Fletcher would ever forgive me if they found out and I didn't invite them. I just wanted to approach you first. Your specialty and mine are rather similar, as you well know."  
  
"My hobbies of late have not been anything resembling this sort of project. I've been engaged in somewhat more mundane affairs." Arabella checked her wristwatch. "Oh gods! It's rather late. I have to go take care of something. Why don't we discuss this, say, tomorrow, about five o'clock?"  
  
Charlie nodded swiftly. "Of course. I have to get back to the burrow, before Mum starts to worry overmuch. Thanks for your assistance, Professor." With that, they both left, going their seperate ways. 


	10. The Utmost Discretion

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK...  
  
Sirius woke up with a start. It was well after midnight, and someone was pounding on his bloody door. "What the hell..." he muttered, rolling off the couch. Somehow, he had not fallen asleep in his bed, again. He could not get to bed like a normal person anymore. Every time he got in bed, he wound up tossing and turning for hours. Memories haunted him the most at night. It was better to just wait until he passed out on the couch.  
  
Muttering darkly, he stumbled towards the door. He was still wearing his pants from the day before. "The one bloody time I fall asleep at a normal hour and someone has the nerve to wake me up..." he grumbled softly.  
  
He threw the chain up, then opened his door a crack. Before him stood his old flame, a haggard look on her face and still wearing the clothes from that day. "Ara, what the hell is it? Do you know what time it is?"  
  
She just looked at him, trying not to stare at his bare chest. "No, Sirius, I have no idea that it is one in the morning! I want to be in bed right now as much as you do, but other events must take precedence. Open your door and come with me."  
  
"Bloody hell! The first time I fall asleep at a normal hour and you drag me into your nonsense. Why, Ara? No, don't tell me. I don't want to know." Sirius did not wait for her to reply, simply shut the door, or tried to.  
  
He could not shut the door all the way, for there was a delicate looking boot jammed in it. Pushing the door back open, he was suddenly confronted by a very angry witch holding a wand. "Sirius Black, you will come with me now, regardless of whether or not I have to drag you." Arabella raised her wand, pointing the end at his head for emphasis.  
  
Sirius just shook his head. His wand was not within his reach. There was no point in fighting her. "What is so important at 1am?"  
  
Exasperated, she looked at him tiredly. "It's come to everyone's attention that you are not coping well with Harry's death."  
  
"Should I be? The last two generations of Potters have died because of me. Is anyone supposed to be able to cope with that?"  
  
She had no answer for him. "Please, Sirius, come with me," she said softly. It was almost a whisper, a request couched in a voice softer than velvet. She had not spoken to him like that in a long time, not since they had been closer than friends. "Please."  
  
Sirius sighed, slowly and deeply. "I do as my lady commands." Arabella noticed the soft glimmer in his eye. She remembered that look well. "Doth my lady give permission for me to garb myself properly?"  
  
Arabella nodded softly. As he shut the door to get his robes, she found herself half wishing she had said no. Ignoring that part of her mind, she waited impatiently.  
  
Finally, Sirius opened the door. Even without sleep and in mourning, Sirius looked handsome. He had his wand tucked into the cord belt he wore. Wordlessly, the two began to walk down the corridor.  
  
"So, milady, where art we going?" he asked with a cynical smile.  
  
Too tired to play games, Arabella replied, "we are going to see someone."  
  
"Who?" Though he asked, Sirius did not seem to be curious at all. It was like he was asking out of politeness.  
  
Arabella looked away, quietly answering, "Someone who can help you cope with Harry's death."  
  
Sirius stopped dead in his tracks. "Damn it, Arabella! I don't need to see a bloody shrink!"  
  
Arabella had been a step or two a head, and she spun to face him. "I'm not taking you to see a 'bloody shrink', Sirius Black!" She replied huffily. "I am taking you to see someone who might be able to help you. Are you going to be pigheaded enough to refuse me so I can drag you there, or are you going to use common sense and come with me?"  
  
Half chastised and half furious, Sirius met her gaze. "I will come," he said simply, and they began to walk again.  
  
After a full ten minutes of walking up stairs, the two walked down a corridor Sirius had never seen before. To find such a hallway was no small feat, as all the Marauders knew Hogwarts better than they knew themselves. Yet he had no recollection of this particular corridor. They walked, Sirius going faster and faster in an attempt to keep up with Arabella, making lefts and rights on branching corridors and ends of hallways. Within five minutes of such walking, Sirius was thoroughly confused and would not be able to find his way back if he tried. Yet Arabella seemed to know exactly where she was going.  
  
Finally, they reached a closed door. There, Dumbledore stood waiting for them. "Hello, Sirius. So good of you to come this late at night. However, the utmost discretion is necessary, as you will of course understand soon. Before we enter this room, I must ask two things of you. First, you must remain quiet. The students below not only need bedrest, but they must not know what occurs here. This brings me to the second. You must not reveal what you see and hear tonight to anyone, regardless of how benign the person seems. After the deaths of Lily and James, I'm sure you understand that at least."  
  
Sirius just looked at Dumbledore. What was the old bat trying to pull? "I agree."  
  
"Well then, shall we?" Dumbledore slowly opened the door, which slid silently open until it was wide agape.  
  
Hesitantly, Sirius walked into the room, his hand casually resting on the wand he had tucked into his belt before opening the door to Arabella. Behind him, Dumbledore shut the door. "All clear," he whispered into the dark room… 


	11. To the Lake

Charlie Weasley left his meeting with Professor Figg yawning enviously. She was probably going to sleep now, while he was going to be working till the sun came up. First, however, had to get home and pretend to just that, which meant he had to get far enough from Hogwarts to apparate home. For that, he got to use his first love, his broom.  
  
He had always been a great flier, he had known that since his dad had gotten him an old Shooting Star for his fifth birthday. In his second year at Hogwarts, he had been made the Gryffindors' seeker, and he helped them win many games during his six-year stint on the house quidditch team. Flying had been his first love, long before any girls had looked his way. Not that the girls mattered, Charlie had always found himself ignoring them anyway.  
  
As he flew over the lake, Charlie found himself staring longingly into the black waters, rolling about much more violently than any lake should. He tutted softly and shook his head. He would have to do something about that. As tempting as the water was, however, he had to get back to the Burrow first.  
  
Finally, he was outside of Hogwarts' anti-apparation field. He felt the edge of the magic cascade gently against his body, an electric tingle that put a smile on his face. He landed gently, then apparated into the den.  
  
His mother sat on the couch waiting for him. There was a dangerous glint in her soft eyes, and her plump form was practically radiating anger. "Charles Weasley! I would think you would know better than to go traipsing off in the middle of the night, leaving me worried sick, and I-!"  
  
She was cut off by Charlie's father, who was trying desperately to diffuse the situation. "Now, Molly, I told you that Charlie would be home late. We had a meeting and…" his voice trailed off at the look on his wife's face.  
  
"And you and Bill have both been home for over four hours already!"  
  
"Mum, it's barely been three hours for one thing, and for another I was meeting privately with Dumbledore!" A small white lie. He was actually meeting Ms. Figg at Dumbledore's behest, but he had heard more than once what his mother thought of the professor, and Charlie had no desire to broach the topic yet again.  
  
"Nice try, Charlie! You're father told me that you left the room with that Figg woman!"  
  
Oh shit. With a glare at his father, Charlie sighed and said, "Mum, I was meeting her at Dumbledore's request. Honestly!"  
  
"Then why wasn't he with you two, instead of letting you have a PRIVATE meeting?"  
  
Charlie's eyes bugged out a tad and he shook his head. "Honestly, Mum, do you think I fancy her or something? It was a professional meeting, about our shared field of expertise."  
  
"I can't believe you! Associating with witches like that…" her voice trailed off bitterly.  
  
Charlie rolled his eyes. "What is your problem with Ms. Figg, Mum? I don't believe you've met her, but you insist on having this opinion that's completely unfounded."  
  
"Charlie, you're too young to understand," his father replied mildly, looking longingly at the stairs that led to his bedroom.  
  
"Well, explain it to me," Charlie challenged, crossing his arms across his chest. "I've been a legal adult for how long now? I have a right to know."  
  
His mother looked him in the eye coldly as she began to speak, "Arabella Figg was at Hogwarts around the same time I was. I graduated in her fourth year. Now, she was best friends with Harry's mother. I didn't get invited to the Potters' wedding. I didn't know them at all, really, but I know that Ms. Figg was a bridesmaid. She'd been dating Black for years by then, off and on. It was rumored that she had led him down the dark paths, but was too wily for the aurors to pin anything on her."  
  
"Oh, Mum! Honestly, Black's been acquitted, you know that!"  
  
"But she was friends with Pettigrew too!"  
  
Charlie shook his head. "So were the Potters! So were Sirius Black and Remus Lupin! They were all friends!"  
  
"Well, you know what else, Charles Weasley?" His mother's eyes flashed an intense and ugly color. "She was Harry's godmother."  
  
Charlie looked puzzled. "Why didn't she adopt him then?"  
  
"No one knows. She vanished immediately after Black's trial, at which she testified, only turned up again when she started teaching. It was like she vanished completely. She abandoned her responsibility to Harry, only to turn up again as soon as he's in the ground. Why do you think that is?"  
  
Charlie just stared, dumbfounded, at a small burn mark (probably from Fred and George) in the carpet. How could that be? She abandoned Harry? To the DURSLEYS? Why? "I have to go to bed," he muttered softly, trudging up the stairs.  
  
Oh well, he would ask Ms. Figg about all of that later. For now, he had a responsibility. He shut and locked his bedroom door, turned off the light, and waited with his ear against the door. Inevitably, he heard his parents going up the stairs and into bed.  
  
He waited a full fifteen minutes for everything in the house to go silent. It took much less time than it normally would, as four of the seven Weasley children were at Hogwarts, and the other two besides Charlie were both morning people who went to sleep infernally early. Then, he patted the pouch on his belt, checking to make sure its contents were still there, and fastened his cloak more securely. With a faintly wicked smile, he clutched his broom close and apparated back to where he had just been.  
  
Charlie stood back in the meadow on the very edges of the Hogwarts non-apparation field. He felt the warm tingle again as he stepped back in, then mounted his Nimbus 2000, his current broom, and flew off towards Hogwarts. No, not to Hogwarts, to the lake.  
  
Finally, he reached the dark, rollicking waters. He set down gently on the shoreline, then shrunk his broom until he could put it in his pocket, which he did. He dug into his belt pouch, pulled out a little piece of what looked like seaweed. He waded about waist-deep into the water, rocking him much more violently than the normally still lake should have been able to, then put the gillyweed in his mouth. As he began to suck on it, he immediately ducked his head under the water, as it was rapidly becoming difficult to breathe air.  
  
As soon as he was submerged, Charlie found it much easier to breathe the water, and he began to swim downward into the lake. The lake was fathoms deep, and he had to swim to the bottom. Fortunately, he was a strong swimmer, and made the whole trek in all of twenty minutes. Finally, there it was. A large magical force field, designed to keep water out but let people pass through. He finally got there, and fell through the barrier with a strange sounding pop. He quickly spit out the gillyweed and cast a drying spell on himself.  
  
A tall, burly, blonde wizard in his early twenties walked up to him, grinning. "Top of the evening to ya, Charlie!"  
  
" 'Lo, Max," Charlie replied. Maxfield Crinzel was a character, but the two of them together knew absolutely everything on their two favorite subjects: quidditch and dragons. "The water rocking is visible from half a mile up." Max just shook his head apologetically without replying, so Charlie added, "Which one is the most ready so far?"  
  
Max put a hand to his chin, stroked his smooth chin absentmindedly. "Hmm, I think it'd be Giselle, which is a good thing since she's mighty taken with you."  
  
Charlie nodded and grinned. Giselle was a Swedish shortsnout, a stubborn and strong little breed of bluish gray dragons. He had taken quite a liking to her, and the feeling seemed mutual. "Are we up to trying her paces?"  
  
"Ready when you are. We've got the harness up, and it's rigged with invisibility to avoid sightings. Just be careful of lightning, because we can't cover that up!"  
  
"Sure, Max, sounds jolly," Charlie nodded with a wry smile. "I'm not going to try for the breath weapon, not yet. I think the greater danger is keeping her from using it on ME!"  
  
The two wizards walked towards the blurry shapes ahead. They kept the dragons a five minute walk from the entrance, mostly for secrecy and safety reasons. Charlie cooed a little at most of the dragons they past, and there were many types. The Pen, as Charlie affectionately termed their underwater headquarters, held Chinese Fireballs, Russian Reds, Norweigian Ridgebacks, African Stonewyrms, Hungarian Horntails, and even a few English Arrowheads, which were especially rare and had nearly been wiped out by a few of Merlin's muggle companions a long time ago.  
  
Finally, they came to the Swedish Shortsnouts section, Charlie's personal favorite. Giselle was a shortsnout, cobablt blue, with a pug face and bright blue eyes. She was among the smallest of the six shortsnouts they had obtained for the project, a fiery-tempered female that had much more blue than grey, as opposed to the even mixture common among her breed.  
  
At present, she was thrashing her tail and stamping her foot irritably at them, ferociously twitching her snout, which had been securely bound to avoid stray lightning bolts. "Hey, girl," Charlie whispered soothingly as he approached her pen. As soon as Giselle realized it was Charlie, she visibly calmed down, though her tail was still frustratedly wagging back and forth. Charlie smiled sweetly at her as he entered her cage, another magical device that let humans pass through but dragons couldn't get out of without magical aid.  
  
Patting her snout softly, Charlie smiled at her, calming her as the other witches and wizards came in. They strapped her into her saddle, then Charlie hopped on. "Detecto Giselle," he said distinctly, and the dragon glowed softly with a blue light. "Transpiro Giselle," Charlie added, popping another piece of gillyweed in his mouth. Giselle didn't need one. All dragons could breathe water to a certain extent, which was how many of them had hid from muggles over the centuries. The two exited out the chamber quickly, with Charlie softly tugging on the reins as he spit out yet another piece of gillyweed into his hand to use on the way back down.  
  
Within seconds, Giselle had swam up to the surface and out of the water. Charlie gasped, trying as hard as he could not to scream with exhilaration. This was great, this was wonderful! He had loved flying on a broom, but this was so much more! Giselle responded just as well as his Nimbus did, it was like she was trying to react before he could tug on the reins. There was no way to describe the feeling he got riding Giselle that night.  
  
After half an hour of flight, Charlie remembered that he had to go back down, below the waves. Putting the gillyweed back into his mouth, he guided Giselle back into the water. The shortsnout responded with only a huff at having to go back under the water into the pen she disliked. Still, she agreed, she relented, she dove down into the turbulent waters.  
  
"How was it?" Max asked eagerly as Charlie hopped off Giselle's back.  
  
Charlie just threw back his head and laughed, an optimistic glint in his blue eyes. "Wonderful! Absolutely wonderful!"  
  
***  
  
Charlie finally apparated back into the den at the Burrow nearly two hours later, only to have his mother staring at him, pointing at the clock, which would give away his location at all times. "Oh shit," Charlie muttered under his breath.  
  
"Oh shit is right," Mrs. Weasley replied furiously. 


	12. All Clear!

"All clear," Dumbledore whispered into the dark room.  
  
All Sirius could see was the color of charcoal, it was too dark to see a thing. Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the dimness. Only the faintest glimmer of moonlight illuminated the room he was standing in. Sirius could hardly see the figure standing a few feet away, silhouetted by the frail light coming in the window. Only his baggy clothes, spiky hair, and gaunt figure were visible to Sirius. Without warning, the figure rushed at him.  
  
Instantly, Sirius was ready to grapple, to fight. He had lived on the streets for a very long time, had reflexes to prove it. He was ready for him, whoever he was, whatever he was about to do. Nothing, however, could have prepared Sirius for what happened next.  
  
Instead of combat, Sirius found himself being hugged. There was a strange intensity to the weak grip, whoever he was was shaking terribly. The moon seemed to shine a little brighter then, for he caught a glimpse of green eyes, a jagged scar, unruly hair like that of only two people he had ever known. It couldn't be, could it? COULD IT?  
  
Tentatively, barely daring to hope, Sirius whispered, "Harry? Is that you?" At his words, someone turned on the lights. It couldn't have been, it shouldn't have been, but it was. It WAS Harry Potter. Inexplicably, he was holding Harry in his arms. Sirius fell to the ground, dazedly sitting while he was being hugged to death. Sirius felt so good that he couldn't comprehend it; dazedly he pulled his godson into a bearhug. "Oh, Harry. I've missed you. But you're dead. I pulled you out of THERE, I saw you laid in the ground. How can you be here?"  
  
"I think I can answer that," replied Arabella.  
  
Slowly, Sirius stood, faced his one time lover. "I should have known you were involved."  
  
She just laughed softly. "But of course!"  
  
"And what is your role in all of this?" Sirius glowered.  
  
Ara laughed then, her proud and beautiful chuckle. "I've been playing Mrs. Figg, the little old lady who lives at 6 Privet Drive, for the past fourteen years. Easily the most tedious thing I've ever done. Though it wasn't difficult at all. The cats give me an advantage." As she spoke, Arabella gestured at the room. It was then that Sirius noticed the housecats. About a dozen felines were in strategic positions around the room: guarding the door, staring out the window, in chairs and under his bed.  
  
She had been with Harry, protecting him all this time? "Why didn't you tell me?"  
  
Her rainbow hued eyes were cold, hurt when she replied, "Why should I have? When would I have? Could I have at all? I didn't volunteer to guard Harry until after the dementors had dragged you away, for killing James and Lily." She waved her hand impatiently, ignoring his protest. "Yes, I know NOW that you weren't the one who betrayed them, but I didn't know then. And besides, I had no reason to tell you. It wasn't like I could have been receiving owls daily, that would have aroused suspicion. Only Dumbledore knew I was there."  
  
"What happened, a month ago? Why did Harry pretend to kill himself?"  
  
Harry, who had been half-ignored for the few seconds, spoke up hesitantly then, squirming and not meeting Sirius's eye. "That part wasn't pretend, Sirius. I tried to kill myself that night. Professor Figg saved me, used my, actions, as part of the plan."  
  
"Oh God," Sirius muttered. "What happened, Harry?" The two walked over to the chairs, sat down together. Neither Sirius nor Harry had noticed as all of the cats and people silently filed out of the room.  
  
Harry was shivering, not with cold, as he sat upon his chair. When he spoke, it was in a sardonic whisper, much unlike how Sirius remembered him. "Uncle Vernon was beating me again, and all I could think about was how I'd hurt my mum and my dad, and Cedric, and you, and all my friends. I put everyone in danger just by being alive, because Voldemort keeps hurting everyone in sight while he tries to kill me. The body count keeps rising, and it's all my fault. If I was dead, then he'd stop trying to hurt the people I care about."  
  
Sirius looked, dumbfounded, at his godson. Putting his hand to Harry's face, he forced him to look him in the eye as he spoke. "No! Never, Harry! Don't think that, we care about you so much, you're the only reason I've kept on living, don't ever think that. You never failed anyone. That you are still alive shows how strong you are, you've fought the most dangerous person anyone has ever encountered five times and lived! No one else can say that."  
  
"I wasn't very strong that night." Still, Harry was still trying not to look Sirius in the eye, and a lone tear slid down his face. "I'm not strong at all."  
  
"Shh, Harry, shh. That isn't true at all." Sirius gave his godson a hug, and just held him while the tears rained down. "You are one of the strongest people I know. You were just pushed too far, in the hands of people who didn't care about you. All that's behind you. You are NEVER going back to the Dursleys again. NEVER," Sirius said, meaning it to the core of his being.  
  
Harry continued softly, almost like he couldn't hear Sirius at all. "I tried to cast the killing curse on myself, but I guess it didn't work. If Ms. Figg hadn't stepped in and knocked me unconscious, I probably would have snuck out of my cupboard that night and found something to slit my wrists with."  
  
Sirius slowly turned, knocked on the door. They all came back into the room, and Sirius glared at the blonde witch, anger clouding his features. "What did you do to Harry, Arabella?"  
  
"I cast a sleeping charm on him, made a flash of green light. I had contacted Dumbledore earlier that evening. I could see the attempt coming, and he told me to save him at the last possible moment, then make him look dead.  
  
"I mended his broken ribs, cast a spell that would make him look dead until I lifted it, and alerted Dumbledore. I presume he called you."  
  
Sirius nodded slowly. "He called me, and I went in there to go get him. Imagine the Dursleys' surprise when a convicted murderer walks in and goes straight to the cupboard under the stairs. I-," Sirius began, his voice failing him. Harry gently patted his arm, and then he continued, "You were a mess, Harry. A cut lip, one of the worst black eyes I've ever seen, and I've seen quite a few, bruises everywhere. I picked you up, held you in my arms, and carried you out of there. Somehow, I managed to do it without killing the bastards who happen to have gotten misplaced into Lily's side of your family."  
  
"Sirius, if you want you can go back and finish the job," Harry replied, rather hopefully.  
  
Sirius just looked at him. "I can't do that."  
  
"Think you could get the dementors after them? They can have the cell next to the one they're saving for Peter Pettigrew." To everyones' shock, Harry seemed completely serious. If he had said that last year, he would have been joking. Not any more.  
  
Sirius found himself staring at his godson. Harry had changed over the summer, and it did not seem to be a good change. He put a gentle hand on his godson's shoulder, led him to a corner of the room so they could talk quietly. "You're serious, aren't you?" Harry nodded. "Don't tempt me. I wanted to hurt them so badly, but I had to think about you first. Even if I didn't save you, I was going to get your body out of there at least."  
  
"Whatcha mean, even if you didn't save me?" Harry was almost in visible hysterics as he spoke, obviously hurting.  
  
"Harry," Sirius began, his voice trembling, "for the past month you have been dead. I could have saved you. But I didn't save you. I failed you! I failed you just like I failed your parents."  
  
"Sirius, you didn't fail any of us!" Harry suddenly met Sirius's gaze. Fiercely, he shook his head. "I failed, not you. And Peter killed my mum and dad, not you. That wasn't your fault!" Harry gave Sirius a hug, and they were both crying.  
  
Finally, Harry determinedly sat back in his chair, wiping away his tears as discreetly as he could. "So, I heard that you were acquitted."  
  
Sirius nodded, blinking rapidly. "I finally brought myself in, Remus and I both took veritaserum and gave accounts of what happened the night Peter got away, and the events around James and Lily's deaths. They had no choice but to believe me, especially considering that Snape had brewed the potions himself."  
  
"You drank something Snape gave you, and you're still alive?" Harry gave a macabre chuckle. "You sure it wasn't a very slow-acting poison?"  
  
Sirius chuckled darkly. "He had to take the first sip, and was then asked if he poisoned the serum. Snape of course said no, and then Remus and I proceeded to have some."  
  
"So, have you got a house?"  
  
Sirius smiled. "When school wasn't in session, I stayed with Remus before now. At present, I see no reason for that to change, though I will eventually get a house for the both of us. You are not going back to them, ever, Harry. I swear it."  
  
Harry shuddered at the mention of the Dursleys, and Sirius sighed. "Harry, I got acquitted at the beginnings of July."  
  
"Why didn't you take me?" Harry asked, sounding bitter and hurt.  
  
He just bowed his head. "Dumbledore thought it was safer for you there. Apparently he was right, since you are still with us."  
  
"I wish I wasn't sometimes," Harry whispered.  
  
"No!" Sirius practically shouted, before noticing the look Dumbledore gave him. Remembering his promise of quiet to the headmaster, he added in a whisper, "Why, Harry?"  
  
Harry just looked at him. "I haven't left this room since I tried to kill myself. THEY won't let me. THEY told you I was dead, THEY told Ron and Hermione I was dead. I might as well be right now." Sirius started to shake his head, but Harry continued talking. "I see things sometimes, Sirius. I can't explain it, but I just know somehow that Voldemort will kill me one day. Oh, he won't win, but he's going to take me down with him. I don't really mind that so much, dying. Just as long as he dies, then I don't care what happens to me."  
  
"That's not true, Harry. You aren't going to die. We won't let you," Sirius said. Then he had to fight off the urge to laugh and cry at the same time. HE wouldn't let Harry die? How had he saved him last time?  
  
Harry nodded, smiled blankly. "I know, Sirius." Harry sighed inside. He hated lying to people, especially Sirius. Oh well, he would be happier this way. Everyone would be happier this way. At least he would get to say goodbye. 


	13. Expecto Patronum

The sun was shining brightly. Surely that was a good sign, or so Charlie supposed. No matter what circumstances happened upon the world, the young wizard always seemed to take it with a smile. Everyone knew that he acted that way. Even he knew he was optimistic, and he half laughed at himself for it and half prided himself upon it.  
  
He walked towards the pens where Professor Figg taught. He knew Hermione and his brother would be there, and it was the period right before lunch, so it was the perfect time to bump into Ron, see how he was doing. And besides, he actually needed to speak with Ms. Figg about the project. She was going to need to pick a dragon, and soon. They had to start training.  
  
There was the class, in the back pen. Professor Figg was speaking, "...And so I suggest that you all take these next few classes seriously. It took several weeks of discussion between myself and the headmaster to have a real dementor allowed at Hogwarts, and even longer to persuade one to come here for these purposes."  
  
She paused before she continued, meeting the gaze of every student as she spoke. "I must emphasize that these are NOT harmless creatures. A real dementor can kill even an experienced witch or wizard who does not know how to conjure a patronus, or who cannot do so effectively. My instructions are to be followed to the letter, and ANYONE who disobeys WILL be removed permanently from this class. Is that understood?" There were several nods and affirmative sounds. "Good." Arabella saw Charlie standing near the back of the class, smiled at him warmly. "Class, please sit quietly for just one moment. We have a visitor."  
  
With that, she walked to Charlie. Of course, the class did not 'sit quietly'. They were quite far from it, actually. That didn't matter any to Charlie; in fact, he was glad they were causing a ruckus. It meant they wouldn't be overheard. "Hello, Professor. Sorry to interrupt your class."  
  
"Not a problem, Charlie. I think I spooked them well enough with that speech, they need a minute to relax before my death glare goes back up and we take the dementor out of his cage." She gave him a crooked smile, which made him want to smile back.  
  
"I just stopped by to tell you that we need your assistance. Could you make it tonight, where we talked about?"  
  
She nodded politely, like Charlie was inviting her to tea. It wouldn't do at all if the students found out she was learning to ride a dragon. "I don't mind you waiting here until class ends," she said with a gentle smile.  
  
Charlie nodded his silent thanks and Professor Figg moved back to the head of the class. "I thank you for waiting patiently. As I said before, you must follow my instructions exactly. Does everyone understand this?" Everyone nodded. A few seemed pale and nervous, especially Hermione. Others, like Draco, were grinning broadly, almost daring the dementor to come their way.  
  
"Everyone, summon a patronus briefly now. This is just to make sure that everyone knows the incantation and that your wands are working." Two dozen people said "expecto patronum", and the field was thick with misty shapes of people and animals. Some were dense enough to almost appear solid, while others were completely transparent. Hermione's and Ron's both seemed a bit more hazy than the patroni of those around them. The professor did not seem to notice.  
  
Arabella walked behind Hagrid's hut, where she had bound the dementor. She quickly unwove the enchantments surrounding it, compelled it to follow her. She would set it loose when they reached the pen, but the gossamer threads of magic would still be close by, just in case.  
  
"Have you all dismissed your patroni?" A chorus of yes's came in reply. "Here it comes!" With that, she cut the last cord binding the creature to her will. It hissed, a sound seeming more telepathic than audible, and rushed towards the students.  
  
Perhaps five students conjured patroni that were perfect. Another ten made adequate ones, enough to keep the dementor at bay. Only a few had not gotten a patronus in time, or theirs was too feeble.  
  
Hermione was one of them.  
  
It rushed for her first. Why it did so was unclear. Several other students had not made adequate patroni. Hermione was not really the closest, for Neville Longbottom had somehow been stuck with the front row, and he had forgotten the incantation entirely in his terror. Hermione was behind him and to his right, yet it dove straight for her.  
  
Hermione froze. Her arms locked at her sides, all thoughts of her wand or a patronus forgotten. Her knees buckled, and she fell, landed on her back. All the while, her face remained unchanged, but for her eyes. Her eyes were seemingly glued open, the size of saucers. The dementor was upon her. All this happened in the blink of an eye, too quickly for anyone to react, to try to prevent what was occurring.  
  
The dementor loomed over Hermione, tall and imposing. A few students had scrambled out of the way, desperate to avoid the thing's icy touch. Almost too late, Ron was there. He stood between his friend and the dementor, a frozen sneer on his face, one Draco would have envied. "Snog on this!" he hissed, "expecto patronum!" A beautiful lion, exactly like a real one but for its misty color, leapt from Ron's wand, stood between the young Gryffindors and the dementor. It pounced onto the dementor's chest, sunk its ethereal fangs into a black neck. The dementor shrank back, and Professor Figg quickly used her magic to bind it. She had thought she was prepared. Apparently she was wrong.  
  
As soon as the dementor was back in its cage, the professor went to Hermione. She had fainted, and Ron was kneeling behind her, cradling her in his arms. Reluctantly, Arabella broke up the scene. "Charlie, would you mind taking these two to Madame Pomfrey's?" Charlie nodded, patted Ron on the shoulder. He started to pick up Hermione, but Ron glared at him and lifted her himself. "I am awarding 100 points to Gryffindor for exemplary behavior."  
  
Ron flashed her a brief and greatful smile before walking with his brother to Madame Pomfrey's. He was not thinking about the points. All he could think about was how light Hermione felt in his arms. Two years ago he wouldn't have been able to carry her across the grounds, and now she was light as a feather.  
  
Charlie would have spoken. He would have asked Ron how he was doing, whether or not Gryffindor was winning at quidditch, if Finch was still a conniving old man. He would have asked his brother if he was sweet on Hermione. But somehow, the young man with red hair walking beside him was not quite his brother. There was a silence in the air, a silence that just radiated around Ron. A silence Charlie didn't know how to breach. 


	14. Nightmares in the Night

Everything was blurry. Foggy. Everything but the faces. Looming at her. Harry's face. Green eyes, twin emerald lanterns in her foggy mind. He cocked his head to the side, smiled at her. Not a happy smile. The smile of the mad. "Why didn't you save me, 'Mione? Why?" NO! "I tried, Harry, I tried! You have to believe me." "Why didn't you save me, 'Mione? Why?" She whimpered into the fog, "No. Please, no!" Green eyes. He had green eyes.  
  
The fog was fading. Green light blew it away. The light from his eyes. Everything else was gone. Everything but his face. His green eyes. Green fading. Grey. His eyes were grey. Dark and grey. Fathomless. His face blurred. A dementor, he was a dementor. A hood, grey eyes. Puckered lips, closer and closer...  
  
"Shh...it'll be okay. Shh..." a voice whispered to her. A safe voice. She was safe.  
  
"Shh, 'Mione. It's okay, everything is okay. It's just a dream, 'Mione, it's just a dream..." the soothing voice she somehow recognized droned on, a hand stroking the side of her face to calm her. It took her a few minutes to calm her shaking body, to stop the tears from streaking her cheeks, to regain her composure.  
  
Hermione sat up. She slowly opened her eyes, half expecting to see a dementor standing there.  
  
Everything was blurry again. But this was a safe blur, not like when she saw Harry in the fog. That had been terrible, dreamlike. This was safe, this was real. Her glasses, being pressed into her hands, they were real too. She put them on, her hands still shaking with remembered terror.  
  
Ron was sitting on the edge of her bed, he had handed her her glasses. It was nighttime, she was in the infirmary. There was a look on his face, wistful and sad and sick and lonely and hurting, all at once. She hadn't seen him emotional in so long, and now he was choking on it. What a contrast it made.  
  
His red hair was dishevelled, almost as badly as Harry's would get... but it suited him somehow. Even so, she knew it meant he hadn't slept enough. The bags under his eyes said the same thing. But it was his eyes... his blue eyes were the darkest blue the sky turns at night, the color right before black. His whole expression was something she had only read about, the sorts of faces you never think people will make in real life. He looked like he wanted desperately to laugh or cry, but his face had been set in its straight lines for too long, he couldn't loosen his jaw enough to smile or frown. So instead he sat there, completely tense, but with worry and sorrow and hope filling to the brim and spilling over from his beautiful blue eyes. It had taken far too long for her to notice that he was crying.  
  
He knew that she had seen his tears, wiped his face halfheartedly with his sleeve. But removing a few teardrops did nothing to disguise the pain in his eyes. He made no effort to camoflauge that, perhaps because it was futile. Perhaps because he did not care that she saw. His hand continued to caress her face. It was that touch that woke her up, that gentle touch. Hermione closed her eyes, savored the feeling of his fingertips against her cheek. It was soothing, reassuring, comforting, and pleasant. Especially pleasant.  
  
Hermione never spoke. She did not ask why she was in the infirmary, did not question Ron's presense so late at night. She did not thank him for being with her, for saving her. Somehow, she knew Ron did not want to talk, did not want to think at all. He just wanted to be there, with her. Hermione was more than happy to oblige.  
  
They stayed there, Hermione lying in bed with Ron sitting beside her and stroking her cheek, for a long time. Eventually, Hermione drifted off to sleep. She was tired, it was late at night. Ron did not leave her side. When he too grew tired, he lied down beside her in bed, his arm draped protectively across her shoulders.  
  
That was how Madame Pomfrey found them in the morning, lying together in bed. She purposefully ignored them. She murmured to herself as she walked away, "I doubt it matters if they lie in the same bed, I doubt they even kissed. After what they've been through they deserve a little sleep. They'll deserve much more before all this is through..." 


	15. Getting Fitted

Arabella shivered a little as she walked onto the field. It was late at night, much to late to be walking across the grounds. If a student saw her she would be hard pressed to come up with an alibi. Perhaps she was checking on the bindings around the dementor? She was on the wrong end of Hogwarts entirely for that. Oh well, professor's authority would have to suffice if it came to that.  
  
She chuckled absentmindedly. When she had been a student here, if a professor had ever said that... she and Lily and Hazel and the Marauders would have hounded that teacher day and night until they learned the truth. Even if they shouldn't have found out something, they always did, by hook or by crook. She wondered abstractly to herself, do any of the students now have it in them to act like that...  
  
Finally, she was at the lake. Charlie was already there, leaning against the base of the nearest tree. "About time!" he said with a chuckle. Arabella laughed for the second time in the span of a few minutes, and again it sounded hollow to her ears. He smiled a little, handed her a piece of slick, greenish-black substance. Gillyweed, she realized as she opened her mouth and popped it in. It immediately became difficult to breathe, so she quickly dunked her head and then began to swim.  
  
Charlie noticed immediately that Arabella was a strong swimmer with good muscle tone, considering how thin she was. Throughout the swim, she never seemed to get winded or eased her pace. Her white robes did not behave like they should have underwater, instead remaining totally opaque and fitting exactly the way they would if she was just walking on land. Charlie saw her smile at him, realized he was staring, and began to kick harder, breezing past her. He couldn't hear her, but he knew she was laughing, and she quickened her pace as well. It became a friendly race, to which they tied. Both finished slightly winded and having the feeling that the other person could have won if they wanted to.  
  
They finally reached the pen. Max was there to greet them, his wavy blonde hair flying everywhere. He held out a gillyweed spitting bucket as Charlie made introductions. The two men began to show Arabella around the pens. She was more than startled by the dragons, in part because they had so many and in part because she had never seen most species of dragons in person. All the dragons had bracelets on their left foreleg, and a few pens had pieces of colored paper tacked to the doors.  
  
Charlie nodded. "The dragons in those pens have riders already. We have them marked off mostly so our trainers know which dragons are where. That English arrowhead, Hazel, is Remus's, for example," he said, pointing at one earthy green specimen with beautiful horns.  
  
Ara just stared at the dragon for a moment. "Who named her?"  
  
"I named her," Maxfield said quietly. "Why?"  
  
Arabella whistled softly, sweetly, a long low note in the still damp air. "When did he find out her name?"  
  
"Remus could have heard us talking, but we didn't tell him until after he seemed to favor Hazel. Why?"  
  
"Nothing important, I'm just curious." Gods, Ara thought to herself. Hazel had loved dragons, even talked about studying them while she was at Hogwarts. She would have loved to be involved in this...  
  
Charlie's voice seemed to synthesize her scattered thoughts into something cohesive. "Do you see any that catch your eye?" he asked quietly, gesturing at the dragons around them.  
  
Arabella looked. Everywhere she turned, there was a new breed of dragon she had only read about. One caught her eye by virtue of size alone. A huge beast, scales the color of freshly drawn blood. A Russian red, she realized dimly. They usually hid out in the mountain ranges of Northern Russia these days, extremely difficult to find, let alone capture. His entire body seemed to be made of pure muscle, and his wingspan seemed like it could have blotted out the sun if he stood over her on dry land. His pen was marked. She instinctively thought, 'Sirius', and kept walking. Who else would have dared claim that dragon for his mount?  
  
Finally, just past the pens for the Russian dragons, there was something that caught her eye. This dragon's multicolored beauty stood out immediately. She was graceful and lithe, able to fly without wings. Ara vaguely recalled reading about dragons who could fly because of some sort of inner magic, which was why dragon heart strings made wonderful cores in wands. She was red, but a bright and exotic red, not the color of blood or bricks. This was a candy apple red, a beautifully intense shade. Her mane was bright cerulean and new leaf green, with a few strands of shocking white. She looked like a cross between a horse, a komodo dragon, and a lion. It took no thought at all to realize what she was staring at, Arabella knew instinctively. She could only murmur softly, "A Chinese fireball..."  
  
Though she didn't see it, Charlie and Max were standing behind Arabella, smiling like proud papas. Another one of their babies had found a human companion, and the moment seemed holy somehow. 


	16. I'm Sorry to Have to Tell You This

Harry was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. Nothing else to do really, except for his homework, and he knew that he didn't have to do it, that he could dodge it by simply pretending it was not there, and that no one would stop him. It really did not matter, the ceiling was beautiful in a Medieval sort of way. Wooden beams supported the white vaulted ceiling, and more than one cat was up there, pretending to sleep. He knew that if even one hair on his head was harmed, countless felines would claw out the person's eyes. It was a charming thought, and he was half tempted to provoke a professor just to watch the cats rip him to shreds.  
  
Before he could think overmuch about the notion, there was a knock at the door. "No visitors!" he called out, his throat scratchy from lack of use.  
  
The door slid open slowly. It was Dumbledore and McGonagall both. There were tears running down her face unchecked, and Dumbledore seemed terribly upset. Harry was nervous. Professors in hysterics could never be good.  
  
"Harry, I'm sorry to have to tell you this," Dumbledore said softly, "but there was an attack on Hogsmeade this afternoon. Four students died, including Dean Thomas."  
  
Harry just stared at Dumbledore. Dean Thomas, his roommate who loved muggle sports. He, Seamus, Ron and Neville shared a room with Harry, at least for the past four years. He could not move, he could not breathe. He blinked a few times, so rapidly that his vision blurred, first by rage and then by tears. In the end, all he could see was a red blur that filled his vision, and it didn't matter whether salt water or anger were responsible. "Were any other Gryffindors killed?" he finally whispered.  
  
"No," McGonagall said quietly, a tremor shaking her voice a little. "But many were hurt severely. Seamus Finnigan, Fred and George Weasley, Neville Longbottom, and two first years you have not met are all in the infirmary, from our house alone."  
  
"...Ron...Hermione..." Harry couldn't even say it like it was a question. He did not want an answer, but he had to know. If they had died, he would jump out that bay window he was currently staring at, and no one would be able to stop him...  
  
Dumbledore nodded slowly. "Hermione was not at Hogsmeade. Ron was with Seamus and Dean, but he is fine aside from cuts and a few bruises. Ron was the one who brought back Dean's body." All Harry could see was Ron, his fiery hair mussed, stepping over a piece of rubble, with a bent and broken body in his arms.  
  
"I want to go to Dean's funeral."  
  
... 


End file.
